


Sweet Child

by Anonymous



Series: Steve and Connie one-shots [2]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Infertility, Light religious reference, Miscarriage, Some tasteful smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24572833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A drabble exploring the night that Steve comes home to Connie carrying an orphaned baby in his arms.
Relationships: Connie Murphy/Steve Murphy (Narcos)
Series: Steve and Connie one-shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776109
Kudos: 4
Collections: Anonymous





	Sweet Child

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags for this fic. It mentions miscarriage and infertility. I feel deeply protective of this small, hurty, lovey fic. The title comes from the song "Sweet Child O Mine" by Guns 'N Roses.

Connie’s breath catches in her throat at the sight of Steve walking through the door with that sweet little baby in his arms. He’s dead on his feat, exhausted and covered in sweat. She recognizes the dull glaze of defeat in his eyes. But when he looks down at that baby, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, it’s like he comes back to life, clinging to the little bundle with a fierce protectiveness as if he’s fallen in love already.

Which, of course, he has.

Tears sting Connie’s eyes and her lips turn up in a smile at the precious sight. They tried for so long. Month after month of disappointed hope finally culminating in the devastating loss of a miscarriage. When Steve took the job in Colombia they both agreed to take a pause. And now…now this child seems like an answer to a prayer.

“Where’d she come from, Steve?” Connie whispers, stroking her fingers over the girl’s fat, little knuckles.

He shakes his head, cradling the child to his chest and letting his cheek rest against her wispy, brown hair. 

“I can’t talk about it yet, baby. Not tonight,” he answers, shutting his eyes against the memory of the mother’s body on the floor, one hand reaching out in the direction of her child. “But…she needs us, Connie.”

They have nothing. No diapers, no formula, no little baby clothes. Connie grabs an old t-shirt of Steve’s from the dresser. It’s well-worn and soft and the little girl looks adorable all bundled up in the folds of fabric. She sends Steve down to the market and settles onto the bed, bouncing the fussy little one on her lap and privately allowing herself to take in all the small details. The sweet, milky smell of her skin, the way her pudgy fingers fist into the material of Connie’s blouse, her huge, liquid eyes and long lashes. She shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t be getting attached. Whatever this is…there’s no guarantee it’s permanent.

_After the miscarriage Connie laid in bed for a week feeling nothing but the hollow emptiness where once a tiny life had quickened. It was like God was denying them this everyday miracle. All she wanted was for their love to be strong enough to manifest a new soul. It felt like everyday one of her friends was announcing a pregnancy and, yet, no matter how much she and Steve loved one another…it wasn’t enough._

_Steve was distraught. He’d lay down beside her, cupping his body around hers and tucking her into his strong arms. Then he’d nuzzle his face into the crook of her neck and hum her favorite song._

_“Come back to me, baby,” he pleaded. “Come back to me.”_

The child’s eyes light up when Steve walks back into the apartment, like she’s already a daddy’s girl. And that thought, flitting so naturally and suddenly through Connie’s mind, is enough to take away her breath all over again.

They get her fed and changed. Connie watches Steve fuss and struggle with the diaper. When he’s finished his face is somehow dusted with baby powder and he’s used half a box of wipes, but he’s smiling that innocent, boyish smile that Connie hasn’t seen since before Bogotá and Escobar and all of it. She grabs his collar and pulls him down to press her lips to his dear mouth. She wants to sob in relief that her man–her wonderful, kind, goofy, soft man–is still here. He hasn’t been destroyed by the misery of this war after all. 

In place of a bassinet they tuck her into a laundry basket lined with blankets. Steve sets it on the floor by the bed in case she wakes in the night. They watch as she drifts off, long lashes resting against plump cheeks, her little chest rising and falling with the comforting rhythm of her baby’s breath. 

“She’s perfect,” Connie sighs, resting her head on Steve’s shoulder and wrapping a hand around his waist. Steve leans down to kiss her temple, humming his agreement. He can feel his heart swelling with a font of emotion he’s never known. This feels right. It feels like their little family is finally complete.

They make love quietly in the dark, their bodies seeking one another automatically. They’re overcome with the need for each other, the need to sanctify this moment as if their love will conceive the _idea_ of a daughter in a way they can’t physically. 

It’s been weeks since they’ve taken the time for anything more than a quick, vicious fuck. Steve frames Connie’s face between his large hands, threading his fingers through her golden locks and leaning down to press his forehead to hers, whispering into a kiss, “I love you so fuckin’ much, baby.”

He rolls his hips slowly, the hard length of him feeling at home inside of her. His face is open, vulnerable. His pink, full lips part around shaky gasps and his eyes are heavy-lidded, looking down at his wife as he tries to invest every touch, every movement with the power of the love he can never fully express with meager words.

She squeezes her thighs against his hips, her reply stuttering from her lips in a thready whisper, “I love you, too, my sweet man.”

They cling to each other like drowning victims under the force of waves that would surely sink them if they were alone. Muscles trembling, breath panting, tears mingling. When it’s over they fall asleep with sweat cooling on flushed skin and arms locked firmly around each other. They fall asleep to the steady beat of their hearts working in synchrony and the sound of their daughter gently cooing in her sleep.


End file.
